


Ohio

by Charlie Snow (Algedonic)



Series: Like Pins In A Map [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Prank Wars, Pre-Slash, Vandalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Algedonic/pseuds/Charlie%20Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a high school in a small town in Ohio, a librarian is checking in textbooks at the end of the school year when she finds another one. S.W. D.W. right there inside the front cover of a freshman history textbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ohio

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place chronologically before Boise. Sam is 14.

In a high school in a small town in Ohio, a librarian is checking in textbooks at the end of the school year when she finds another one. S.W. D.W. right there inside the front cover of a freshman history textbook.

It was several years ago now, but she remembers. She'll always remember. Thinks that the whole school probably will; it's become a bit of a legend, passed down from class to class through siblings and friends like a game of telephone, growing and changing and becoming more and more outlandish as the years pass, but she remembers.

~

Sam is sitting in second period US History on a Monday morning when he finds it.

Dean must have snuck his book out of his bag sometime over the weekend, scrawled their initials inside the front cover and tucked it back into his backpack for Sam to find later on.

It's just a thing they do, leaving this little piece of themselves all over the place. Started in the Impala when they were seven and eleven and it's only grown since then. There've gotta be hundreds of them by now, all over the country, but this one is small, _tiny_ even. It's not Dean's style; Dean tends to pick big places, public places, the harder to get away with the better. Sam's the one that leans towards sentimentality.

No, this Sam recognizes for what it is. An invitation. _Hey, Sammy, wanna play? Show me what you got, kid._

Sam smiles to himself as he turns to page 74. It's _so_ on.

~

Later on, at lunch, Sam makes a trip to the first floor boys bathroom, stall furthest from the door. He locks it, props his foot up on the toilet seat, fishes his knife out of his boot, and etches their initials into the chipping grey paint, right there in the middle of the door where Dean is sure to see it. He refuses to use urinals - _you're vulnerable with your back turned and your cock out, Sammy_ \- and always takes the stall furthest from the door - _the more solid walls the better_ \- and there's no way in hell Dean will miss his little message.

 _Game on._

~

Dean sees it as he's zipping up, and grins. 

It makes him feel a little giddy that Sam knows him as well as he does. Lots of things about Sam make him feel a little giddy, actually, but Dean's been trying really hard not to examine them too closely. 

The kid is fourteen. And his brother.

He passes Sam a few minutes later in the hallway, shoulder-checks him and raises his eyebrows. Sam just grin, stupid little dimples on his cheeks.

He's got a free period in the afternoon, spends it in the commons at the seat Sam always takes at the little table in the corner at lunch. He props a textbook up to shield his work from unwanted eyes and checks over his shoulder constantly as he carves their initials into the hard plastic tabletop. 

They eat together the next day, and Dean watches, waits, looks on with satisfaction as Sam notices. The corners of his mouth tug up in a grin and he looks up at Dean, mischief on his face.

He finds the next one carved into his desk in sixth period Spanish. He's got no idea when Sam had the time to do it or how he even knew which desk to vandalize, and Dean is impressed.

~ 

The next morning, the entire bulletin board across from the front doors is covered in a giant white sheet of paper, S.W. D.W. in bright red paint.

Sam hides a small smile behind his hand, hint of a blush high on his cheeks.

It's a competition, he knows that, but it's also _more_ than that. This thing they do has always been more. It's about leaving a mark, about _them_ , about something _permanent_ in the midst of a life where almost no one ever gets a chance to learn their names. 

It makes his chest swell and his belly go warm, him and Dean up there for the whole school to see, hearing people's hushed conversations and following their eyes, their pointing fingers, towards the display.

He knows what it usually means when two people leave their initials behind, together, for others to see and wonder at, and it shouldn't make him feel so warm and full and _happy_. Dean's his brother. His complicated, smart, _gorgeous_ older brother.

He rides the swell of happiness like a wave, lets the rumors and speculation fuel it all the way through to the last bell, long after Dean's message has been taken down. 

He gives Dean extra points for creative use of school colors, and plots his next move.

~

Sam seems distant. Distracted. Dean wonders if he went too far, if the whole poster thing was too big, too public. 

He keeps his eye out the next day, but there's nothing. He barely sees Sam; kid inhales half his sandwich and makes some bullshit excuse before slinking off barely five minutes into lunch, and Dean sits there alone, confused, heavy weight of guilt and regret making his stomach churn and his own sandwich taste like sand in his mouth.

He doesn't know what he was hoping for. It was way out of Sam's usual comfort zone, and he'd known that when he did it, but sometimes... Sometimes he catches a flash of something in Sam's face, sometimes his smile quirks in the just the right way, his eyes linger just a beat too long, and he thinks maybe he's not alone in this thing he's got. 

He spends most of the afternoon convincing himself it's confirmation bias, that he only sees it because he wants to see it. That he needs to back off. Let Sam be normal, if he can manage it. Dean never could, but Sam deserves better, doesn't deserve Dean dragging him down into the pit of differentness and loneliness and isolationism that he sometimes thinks would swallow him whole, if it weren't for Sam.

By the last bell, Dean's run through his apology about a hundred times, psyched himself up to make it, has it on the tip of his tongue when he catches sight of Sam coming around the corner, but Sam avoids his eyes, tells him he's got a few things to do and he'll meet him at home, and disappears the way he came before Dean's got a chance to get a word in.

He drives home, alone, and wishes he never started this stupid fucking thing in the first place. Sam gets home a couple hours later, mumbles something about being tired, going to bed early, and the click of the lock on his bedroom door settles heavy in Dean's chest like a concrete block.

~

He almost doesn't go to school the next day. He's tired and heartsick and guilty as hell, so lost in his own little world that he doesn't even hear the buzz in the halls, barely registers the teacher's multiple attempts to get his first period Chem class to settle down. 

It takes an announcement over the loudspeakers to jar him.

"As most of you have no doubt noticed, we had a rather serious incidence of vandalism overnight. We'd like to assure you all that we're doing everything we can to catch those responsible, and encourage anyone with any information to please come forward."

Dean's heart jumps into his throat, head snapping up so hard he thinks he might have pulled something. His eyes widen when he sees it, jaw falling open a little in shock.

S.W. D.W. Right there in the bottom left corner of the chalkboard. It's paint, Dean notices, white motherfucking _paint_ , dry now, little drips trailing down from the points of the Ws.

He leans over to the girl next to him - Andrea, he thinks. "Where else did they paint it?"

She shrugs. "Every classroom in the school, far as I know. Don't know where else. What d'you think it means?"

"Wish I knew." Dean says, so overwhelmed he can't think anything at all.

"Fucking _romantic_ , if you ask me. They've gotta be initials, right? Guy breaks into the school in the middle of the night and paints our initials on every chalkboard? I'd _marry_ the bastard."

"Yeah." Dean says, throat so dry the _Sahara_ looks like an oasis by comparison.

~

They won't catch him. Sam's sure of it. He was careful, and quick, and they can speculate all they want, but there's no _proof_. The school doesn't have cameras, he left no sign of forced entry, even wore gloves on the extremely slim chance that a town this size has a police department with the capability to lift prints. No one saw him. W isn't a very common last initial, and he's not sure if there are any other D.W. or S.W.'s in the school, but it doesn't matter. They've got no proof, and him and Dean are good liars. The worst they could do is expel him, slap a vandalism charge on him, but they'll be hundreds of miles away before it ever comes to that.

He's walking down the hall on his way to third period when he's grabbed by the elbow and yanked abruptly into a janitor's closet.

He really thought the whole hidden-trysts and hushed-conversations in the janitor's closet thing was an unrealistic movie cliche that never happened in real life, but honest to god Dean must do a walk-through and make a make a mental note of the location of each one at every school they go to.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he says as Dean shoves him back against the door, "people are gonna start to talk."

"You-" Dean starts, shakes his head, "you're fucking unbelievable, you know that?"

Sam can't tell if he means it in a good way or a bad way and his heart's beating kind of really fast in his chest. "I know. It's part of my charm."

Dean laughs abruptly, face splitting into a blinding grin. "You little shit. I thought you were pissed at me."

He uses his grip on Sam's shoulders to pull him into a hug, and Sam folds himself into it. They don't hug enough. "Sorry. You'd be surprised how much planning goes into vandalizing an entire high school in the middle of the night."

"Like I said," Dean says, pulling away, "fucking unbelievable. How in the _hell_ am I supposed to top that?"

He's got this really impressed, almost _affectionate_ look on his face that makes Sam all jittery, makes him think that, realistically, there's almost nothing he wouldn't do to see it there more often. "Guess you'll just have to get creative."

"Guess so."

~

Dean's practically _bouncing_ with excitement the next morning. He's up before Sam, which is enough to have alarm bells going off in Sam's head on its own, but when Dean shoves a granola bar into his hand and herds him out the door a full _fifteen minutes_ before class starts, Sam starts to wonder if he might be a shifter or something.

He's forced to abandon that theory as he catches the glint of the silver ring on Dean's right hand, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, but when Dean actually comments on what a beautiful day it is - and it's really _not_ , it's cloudy and chilly and it'll most likely be raining by lunch - Sam _knows_ something's up.

"Okay. Spill." Sam says.

"What are you talking about?" Dean asks, grinning.

" _You_. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm not allowed to be in a good mood?"

"No. You're never in a good mood before ten a.m. Did you get laid?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "No. You'd know if I got laid, dude."

"Are you _gonna_ get laid?"

"Jesus, Sam. No. Just... shut up and eat your breakfast."

They pull up to the school a few minutes later, and there's an unusually large crowd gathered in the concrete courtyard out front.

Dean's good mood starts making sense as soon as they close enough to see what all the fuss is about.

It's _huge_. Thick block letters in black spray-paint, each set of initials taking up as much space as a small car.

"You _didn't_." Sam hisses, unable to stop his grin.

Dean slings an arm around his shoulder, tugs him close, whispers directly into his ear, "I _so_ did." 

"Jesus _Christ_." A part of Sam wants to move closer, but he doesn't really need to. He thinks you could probably see it just fine from a goddamn _airplane_.

"My friends just call me Dean." He says, and Sam can _hear_ his self-satisfied grin.

Something warm and tingly and _big_ swells up in his chest, pushes against his lungs and up into his throat. It's hard for him to explain exactly what it means to him, this thing him and Dean do. It's something that's just _theirs_ , a reminder to themselves and the world that they were _here_ , that they _exist_ , that no matter how bad things get, how cut off from reality they sometimes feel, they've got this thing, this _one thing_ , that's real enough and strong enough to outlast even the trees they carve it into and the concrete they paint it on.

He's a sentimental _girl_ about it, he knows that, but when Dean's face lights up and he gets that easy smile on his face as him and Sam carve out yet another home for themselves, side by side, he thinks maybe he's not the only one. That maybe it means exactly the same thing to Dean; that maybe he needs it just as badly as Sam does.

“You like it?” Dean whispers, and Sam just nods dumbly.

“Yeah. I think you win.”

“I think we tied.” Dean says.

~

They leave town a few days later, and no one ever figures it out, but people remember. It gets its own page in the 1997-1998 year book, complete with shiny pictures and a poorly-written article, and the speculation and rumors go on long after they’re gone, long after the paint has been scrubbed from the concrete and chalkboards, the tables and desks replaced.

 

This might be the only one left, the librarian thinks, brushing her thumb over the letters, but she’s pretty sure whoever wrote it got what they were after. She remembers.


End file.
